🦋 16. Sunday at Five

It wasn’t the story. It was how often he told it.

Previously in Evangeline’s story…

Scott’s Friday night work trip to Edinburgh extended unexpectedly by another night. When Evangeline called him, something in his voice had shifted — breathless, guarded, eager to end the conversation. He was away working with his colleague David.

She tried to paint but couldn’t settle. The mental refuge of her art wouldn’t open.

In the darkening attic that was her art studio, she thought about Moreau’s words:
You have the ability to see beneath the surface of a face.

Perhaps it was time to use that ability closer to home.

The story continues:

---

He came home on Sunday afternoon with flowers.

Evangeline heard the front door open, the familiar thud of his overnight bag hitting the hallway floor, and then his voice calling out with a brightness that was not how he usually sounded after a hectic work weekend.

“Hey! I’m back!”

“In here,” she called.

He appeared in the doorway holding a bouquet of pale pink roses, still wrapped in cellophane. His smile was wide, eager, the smile of a man who wanted to be welcomed.

“Grabbed these at the airport,” he said, crossing to kiss her briefly on the lips. “Thought you might like them.”

“They’re lovely.” She took them, feeling the cool plastic crinkle under her fingers. “Thank you.”

“God, it’s good to be home.” He was already moving toward the kettle, his back to her, reaching for a mug. “That trip was relentless. David had us going non-stop — breakfast meetings, sessions all day, client dinners both nights. I’m absolutely knackered.”

She watched him. The easy movement, the casual tone, the way he filled the kettle without looking at her.

“How was the flight?” she asked.

“Delayed, actually. Sat on the tarmac for forty minutes. David and I just grabbed coffees and waited it out.” He flicked the kettle on. “You know how it is.”

“You must be exhausted,” she said carefully.

“I am. Actually, d’you mind if I jump in the shower before dinner? I feel disgusting. It’s been a long day.”

“Of course.”

He was already heading for the stairs, already moving away from her, the boiled kettle forgotten. She heard his footsteps overhead, the bathroom door closing, the pipes groaning as the water came on.

She began to put the flowers in water, thinking how it had been such a long time since he had bought her flowers, in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time.

---

The days that followed had a strange, muffled quality.

At home, she found herself inadvertently observing him.

He seemed… lighter.

More attentive than usual.

Not the usual version of him that came back from work weekends — the one who complained about his back, the hours, the sheer inconvenience of it all.

And then there was David.

“…David had a point about that, actually—”

“…I said to David, if we don’t get ahead of it now—”

“…you know what David’s like…”

It wasn’t that he mentioned him.

It was the frequency.

“David reckons the Calder deal will close by month end,” he said on Tuesday evening, not looking up from his pasta. “He’s been brilliant on this, actually. Really knows his stuff.”

“You’ve gotten close,” Evangeline said mildly. “You and David.”

“What?” He glanced up. “Oh — yeah. I suppose. He’s a good bloke. Easy to work with.”

She nodded and said nothing more.

But she thought: You barely knew him three months ago. Now he’s narrating your entire life.

---

On Wednesday, she left work early.

There was nothing urgent waiting that couldn’t keep until tomorrow — and she found herself craving movement, air, the simple freedom of walking through the city without purpose. She wandered through Marylebone, mindlessly looking in shop windows, and eventually stopped at a small café on a side street to order a coffee just for the sake of it.

She was standing at the counter, waiting for her flat white, when she heard a voice behind her.

“Evangeline? Is that you?”

She turned.

A woman was smiling at her — mid-forties, well-dressed, blonde hair up in a neat ponytail. It took Evangeline a moment to place her, and then it came: the work do at Scott’s firm, a few months ago. Brief introductions, polite small talk, a face she had filed away and not thought of since.

“Caroline,” she said, the name surfacing just in time – David’s wife. “How lovely to see you.”

“You too! It’s been ages.” Caroline shifted her handbag on her shoulder, settling in for a chat. “How are you? How’s Scott?”

“He’s well, thanks. Busy, as always.” Evangeline smiled. “How’s David? Recovered from the weekend?”

She asked it lightly, casually — one wife to another, making small talk about their husbands’ shared ordeal. She expected Caroline to roll her eyes and say something about the Calder deal, about Edinburgh, about how exhausted David had been when he got home.

Instead, Caroline laughed.

“Oh God, barely. It was absolutely full-on. David invited his parents to come up from the coast on Friday and they didn’t leave until Sunday evening. You know how it is with in-laws.”

Evangeline felt her heart drop.

A physical sensation — sudden, intense, visceral, as if something had fallen through her chest and kept falling.

“His parents?” she heard herself say, her vision suddenly narrowing.

“Mm. They come up a few times a year. His mother is hard to please, just between you and me.” Caroline lowered her voice conspiratorially, enjoying the confession. “We spent the whole weekend entertaining them. David took them out to that new place on the high street — Marchetti’s, have you been? — and honestly, it was a miracle. She actually loved it. We hit the jackpot.”

The café sounds seemed to recede. The hiss of the coffee machine. The murmur of voices. All of it pulling back, growing distant, as if she were hearing it from underwater.

She needed to be sure.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears — too bright, too controlled. “When did they head home?”

“Sunday, around five. David drove them to the station.” Caroline shook her head, smiling. “Honestly, I collapsed on the sofa the moment they left. Didn’t move for hours.”

“I can imagine.”

Her heart was pounding now. She could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the strange ringing silence that had opened up inside her head.

David had been in London all weekend. With his parents. Taking them to Marchetti’s. Driving them to the station on Sunday at five.

David and I just grabbed coffees at the airport.

David had us going non-stop.

David really needs me for this morning session.

All of it. Every word. A complete invention.

The barista set Evangeline’s flat white on the counter. She reached for it automatically, her hand somehow steady despite everything inside her trembling.

“Anyway,” Caroline said, glancing at her watch. “Lovely to bump into you. We should do dinner sometime — the four of us. Get the boys away from work for an evening.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

Her voice came out normally whilst the nausea rose in the back of her throat.

“I’ll text you. Take care!”

And then Caroline was gone, pushing through the café door and disappearing into the afternoon, completely unaware of what she had just done.

---

She walked home.

It took over an hour, but she needed the movement, the rhythm of her feet on pavement, her eyesight was blurry. She couldn’t have sat on a Tube. She needed to be alone.

David wasn’t in Edinburgh last weekend.

His parents came up from the coast.

He barely left the house.

The words circled through her mind, rearranging everything she thought she knew.

She felt sick, her stomach churning, her mind racing, her body numb.

Scott had lied. Not vaguely, not by omission, but directly, repeatedly, looking her in the eye. Every story, every detail, every casual mention of David — all of it constructed around a man who had been merely miles away, eating Sunday lunch with his parents.

The audacity of it stunned her.

Who were you with?

The question rose up unbidden, sharp and cold.

If not David, then who?

She thought about the phone call on Saturday. The breathlessness when he answered. The half-second pause. The eagerness to hang up. The uneasiness she felt without being able to put her finger on it.

And now here it was, undeniable and plain.

By the time she reached her street, the sky had darkened and a light rain was beginning to fall. She let herself into the house, hung up her coat, and stood in the hallway, not moving.

The house was quiet. Scott wouldn’t be home for another two hours.

She went into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

Her throat was dry, her whole being dispossessed and dazed.

The roses he had brought home were in a vase on the windowsill. Pale pink. Already beginning to droop.

---

Just then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it wondering if it was Scott saying he would be very late home — and then she went still.

The message was from a number she didn’t recognise, but the name that appeared beneath it was familiar.

Claire Marchand.

She opened it.

Dear Ms Hart,

I hope this message finds you well. Mr Moreau has asked me to reach out regarding a matter he wishes to discuss with you. Would you be so kind as to contact the office at your earliest convenience?

With best regards, Claire Marchand
Executive Assistant to Alexander Moreau
Moreau Capital Partners
London | Paris | New York

Evangeline stared at the screen.

A matter he wishes to discuss.

She had no idea what it could mean. The meeting about her paintings had happened weeks ago. He had given her his assessment, his encouragement, his careful observations. There had been no suggestion of further contact.

And yet here was Claire’s message, formal and precise, asking her to call.

She looked at the roses on the windowsill. At the quiet kitchen. At the life that was beginning, she now understood, to come apart at the seams.

And then she looked back at the phone, at the small glowing rectangle that held, perhaps, the first faint signal of something else entirely.

She didn’t reply. Not yet.

But she saved the number.

---

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